


Prince Heathen

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Face-Fucking, M/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete has made a pervert out of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prince Heathen

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excerpt from an unfinished series about trying-to-reform gangster Pete and nervous deacon's son/speakeasy musician Patrick that likeasugarcube and I started a few years ago.

The vicious thrill Patrick gets when he watches Pete box is always surprising to him. He remembers a day out in the country, getting the stuffing beat out of him until he got mean enough to fight back, and it sends a little shiver up his spine. Pete has made a pervert out of him.

They're careful about how they live and what they let folks know, but Pete makes himself useful as a handyman, living and breathing charm, and Patrick's affable smile and quiet shyness leave most people disarmed. They're painfully, obviously confirmed bachelors, but people mostly leave them alone.

That ugly old scar on Pete's shoulder might help, too. It's been years since he was shot, but the skin over that place is just as gnarled and twisted and beautiful as it's ever been. The other boxers aim for it like it's a weak spot, but Pete's never been prouder of anything, and he uses the pain like oil in a lamp. 

Patrick is drinking a scotch that's been sat for a little too long. After years and years drinking Doc's swill, it tastes like sunshine and berries. He's sitting with the pretty daughter of the local pharmacist and her husband, trading cheerful stories between bouts fights. Victoria teases him when her husband isn't paying attention, and Patrick thinks of pretty Greta back home in Chicago.

He cheers louder than anyone else in the joint when Pete climbs into the ring. He's biting down on his gum shield and hopping up and down, all that lean muscle under his skin going tense. He flashes Patrick a look that makes Patrick feel like he's in short pants again. Victoria pats his knee under the table, smiling without looking at him. Patrick blushes like a damn dame. 

The other guy, Saporta, is tall and thin and doesn't speak a word of english. Pete sizes him up and nods. He's going to take that bastard down. The bell rings, and Pete goes.

It's almost like dancing, Patrick thinks as they circle around one another. Pete has got his bullet wound and his knee that's getting trickier and trickier, but he's smart and he's fast and he's mean. 

Saporta throws the first punch, testing the waters. Pete dodges it easily without throwing one back. He takes three steps back, and when Saporta follows him, he fakes a punch to Saporta's gut and manages to clock him when Saporta bends to move away. Patrick hollers along with the crowd.

Pete lands two more punches in the first round, but Saporta catches him in the chest as the bell rings. Patrick sees him lose his breath and grins at the table. Fuel for Pete's fire and nothing else. They start round two with fists out. There will be no more playing.

Saporta gets a solid blow to Pete's jaw early in, the sound of his leather gloves on Pete's skin like a shot. Patrick tightens his fingers around his glass. Pete shakes his head and fires back, one-two-three, like lightning.

Saporta stumbles but doesn't go down. Pete's back rises and falls as he pants, still short of breath and coming up shorter. Patrick orders another scotch. Round three, Pete gets knocked down and has to scramble up before a ref counts him. He's got a bit of shine starting on his jaw that Patrick's going to be treating all week.

Saporta dives in, confident now that he's sent Pete on the defensive. Pete blocks and weaves and wiggles himself away, too small for Saporta to match pace with. His gloves smack against Saporta's ribs and catch him in the stomach. Pete has more points, but Saporta has a knockdown.

When Pete wobbles to his corner between rounds three and four, he looks at Patrick and sighs. Patrick smiles, even though he's cringing inside. Pete takes losing hard. He casts a quick look around before tapping the edge of his mouth with his finger. It's the most decent kind of affection he can show in public without folks getting squirmy. Pete grins. His gum shield shines in the lights above them.

Round four is downright barbaric. Pete charges at Saporta like he's a bull, fists flying and body vibrating. Saporta makes him work for it.

Just as Patrick's beginning to worry that Pete is going to lose his lead, Pete lands an uppercut to Saporta's jaw that makes a crack heard all the way through the auditorium. Victoria gasps. Patrick waits, breath held, until Saporta falls.

It's like watching a tree crash down to earth. Pete stands over him, fists still raised just in case, but Saporta doesn't get up. The ref counts him out.

Patrick jumps up from his seat and cheers, his fedora nearly falling off. Every part of him craves Pete. He wants to touch him and kiss him and curl up inside him until they can't be pulled apart again. The familiar tingle of want is right under his skin as he watches Pete punch the air in victory.

Pete helps Saporta to his feet and claps him on the back. Saporta laughs, even as he's shaking his head. He doesn't understand what Pete is saying to him, but he can read Pete's smile. They shake through their gloves. The sound of the crowd is making Patrick dizzy. 

He has to wait for Pete to make his rounds and collect his winnings and agree to his next match. It's all so tedious. He just wants to go home and let Pete dirty him up. He waits in the car, because he can't stay in that building where Pete is sweating and smiling and being polite. Even he has his limits. 

Nothing will ever be as nice as that pretty little gangster car Patrick left Chicago in, but this one comes damn close. Patrick strokes the paint and smiles at the people he knows who pass him by. If he has to wait much longer, he's going to march right back in and drag Pete out on his own.

"Look at you," Pete whispers when he finally comes out. His face is bruised on one side, and Patrick can only image the damages done under the white cotton of his undershirt. "Best damn prize I could ask for." Patrick laughs even as he feels a hot blush working its way up his face. He'll never get over Pete looking at him like that.

"You charmer," Patrick says back as he slides into the car. Pete grins and hops in next to him. The pain of his bruises hasn't sunk in yet.

They don't live too far out, but Patrick is wiggly and anxious and turned on. He wants Pete to push him up against something, wants to feel all that brute strength under his hands. 

"Pull down that road," Pete says as they pass the old Jackson farm. Patrick frowns, but does as he's told. He hadn't planned on making any detours.

"What are we-"

"Keep going." Pete pats Patrick's thigh, the heat of his hand lingering behind. 

The corn stalks are yellowing, as high up as Patrick is inside the car. They stretch back for a half dozen acres. It would be pretty if Patrick could pay attention. He can’t stop glancing at Pete, can’t ignore the way his hand feels. He’s going to crash the car. 

“Pull over here,” Pete instructs. He squeezes Patrick’s thigh and is out of the car before Patrick even turns it off. He jogs a bit and then turns around. The cornstalks reach his shoulders. “Come on, dumb bum.” 

Patrick frowns, but gets out of the car. He’s not sure about this, but he’s never been able to say no to Pete. He folds his jacket and takes off his waistcoat. They’re both too nice to be running around outside in. Pete laughs at him as he tucks them away into the car. 

“I like ‘em on,” Pete says when Patrick gets close to him. He curls his first and middle fingers between the buttons of Patrick’s shirt and pulls him in. He smells like sweat, heady and musky and dark. Patrick feels dizzy with it. “You like it when I fight, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes out, kissing the curve of Pete’s neck, right against the cotton of Pete’s shirt. He’s hard in his trousers, and he’s sure Pete can feel it. Pete’s free hand curls around his hip and pulls him in, brings them full on together.

“It get you worked up?” He asks. His hand slips to Patrick’s ass, squeezing him through his slacks. His cock is lined up with the crease of Patrick’s thigh, getting hard as Pete holds him. 

“Shut up and kiss me,” Patrick whispers. He feels exposed, out here in the open, but the danger isn’t enough of a deterrent. Pete laughs quietly, his shaking chest the only thing that really gives him away, but he does as he’s told, fitting his mouth to Patrick’s. 

It’s dirty and hard, Pete’s fingers moving from Patrick’s shirt to his hair and pulling. Patrick moans against Pete’s mouth, biting at his lips. Everywhere he touches is warm and solid and slick with sweat. 

“Push me,” he says. He feels silly saying it, but Pete clutches him tighter. The hand in his hair tightens. It hurts a little. He kind of likes it. Pete pulls his head to the side, bears his throat and bites down. 

Patrick’s knees wobble. He goes limp in Pete’s arms. He wants to touch himself, to touch Pete, but he can’t make his arms work. When Pete pulls away, he goes to his knees. Pete’s hand stays in his hair.

The solid, hard line of Pete’s cock is visible in his boxing shorts. Without even touching him, Patrick knows he took off his jockey. He’s almost disappointed. He likes it way it looks. Patrick touches Pete’s thighs, his knees, the laces of his boots. The leather is soft like butter under his fingers. He wants to strip Pete down and look at him, but he knows better than to do it here. Later, he tells himself. Later.

He kisses the head of Pete’s cock through his shorts. They’re rough on his lips. Pete’s fingers tighten. 

“You look real keen like that,” Pete says. The shiner he’s got has already gone dark. Patrick presses a hand to his cock and moans. He’s turning into a right delinquent. Pete pushes down his shorts, baring his dark skin, and presses his cock to Patrick’s mouth. His other hand holds Patrick’s head right there, right where he wants him.

Patrick licks the shaft of Pete’s cock where’s it’s pressed to his lips. When he looks up, Pete’s watching him, mouth open and eyes heavy lidded. He’s beautiful and dangerous, and Patrick’s all goofy for him. 

Pete rocks his hips, slipping his cock against Patrick’s lips and cheek. He tastes like he smells. It makes Patrick’s own cock ache. He’ll never have enough of this. He opens his mouth wide, and Pete slides his cock in like it belongs there. 

Patrick stays right where he is. Between Pete’s hand in his hair and the taste of Pete on his tongue, he doesn’t want to. Pete fucks his mouth in slow, short thrusts. He’s aggressive like he usually isn’t. It’s making Patrick’s blood boil. He rubs himself in time, grinding his palm against himself through his slacks. 

“I’d fight anyone for you,” Pete says, thick and low. He rests his free hand on the side of Patrick’s neck, thumb against his adams’ apple. Patrick can feel spit running down his chin. He’s filthy. 

Pete pulls him in closer, not hard, but enough to make Patrick’s jaw hurt. He closes his eyes and focuses on not choking. Pete presses his thumb into the space it’s nestled into, and Patrick jerks as he comes in his slacks. He feels loose and lazy and fuzzy, the tension in his jaw fading. He stares up at Pete, and feels his heart beat.

“I’m gonna lay you down, baby,” Pete says. Patrick whines when Pete moves away from him, his cock slipping out of his mouth with a slick, dirty sound. Still, he goes easily when Pete leads him down. “Just open your mouth.”

Patrick does, even though he feels stupid. What he must look like.

Pete lays over him, legs spread over Patrick’s chest and arms braced above his head. Patrick can see the bulge of his biceps, the subtle shake as he holds himself up. Carefully, Pete lines his dick up and goes back to fucking Patrick’s mouth.

Patrick touches Pete’s arms, feels them working. The constant hum of arousal that he feels for Pete is roaring in his chest, even if his body can’t live up to it at the moment. He sucks at Pete idly, content to be used. Happy for it, maybe.

He knows when Pete’s going to come. Pete’s arms and legs tense up, his eyes close. He’s something special, and Patrick managed to nab him all for his own. Pete rolls off of him and jerks himself off, knees spread wide and head thrown back. Patrick kisses his calf right above his boot. He smiles when Pete comes all over his hand and shirt. Their laundry is going to be awful to clean.

“Best damn prize,” Pete says, yanking Patrick up to kiss him again. 

It’s slower, lazier, but Patrick’s mouth is wet with spit and Pete’s holding him too tight. He laughs, because he’s so, so happy. 

“Home,” Patrick says, even though he doesn’t want to move. The chill is sinking into his skin, and his slacks are getting stiff. “Let’s go home.”

“Yeah,” Pete says. He kisses the corners of Patrick’s eyes, the tip of his nose. The aggressive brute that had been there is gone. Pete smiles down at him, that goofy smile that Patrick loves so much, and helps him up. 

They drive home, away from the setting sun, Pete in the driver’s seat and Patrick next to him. He touches the tender spot on his neck with gentle fingers and smiles to himself.


End file.
